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The DCI Warren Jones Series Books 1–3. Paul Gitsham
Читать онлайн.Название The DCI Warren Jones Series Books 1–3
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9780008443252
Автор произведения Paul Gitsham
Жанр Ужасы и Мистика
Издательство HarperCollins
The subdued lighting glinted off a pair of large earrings. With sudden inspiration, Warren decided on a gamble. “Are those new earrings, Bernice? They go well with your new haircut.”
Miracle of miracles, Bernice actually smiled. “Yes, dear, Dennis bought me them. I’m glad you could make it.”
“I’m sorry I’m so late. I’ll fill you in on everything when we get home. You’ll get to hear it before I give my press conference,” It was a shameless exaggeration, but it worked. Bernice looked impressed.
Suddenly, the lights dimmed and music erupted from the orchestra pit. Warren quickly sat down, next to Susan. She held his arm and whispered into his ear, “Smooth operator, DCI Jones.” Warren simply smiled and kissed her on the lips.
Susan frowned slightly. “Cheese and Onion or Prawn Cocktail?”
On his way out of the theatre, Warren looked frantically for somebody selling a souvenir programme. Within two minutes of the curtain going up, the day’s stresses and strains had finally beaten him and he’d fallen sound asleep. He assumed that he hadn’t snored, otherwise Susan would have woken him up. He had no idea if Bernice had noticed. Nevertheless, he was determined not to get caught out by a grilling on the content of the show when he got home.
No sellers were to be seen. Typical, he thought, they were practically forcing them on you on the way in. Warren made a mental note of the name of the play, deciding to do a quick Google search before driving home tonight. A basic familiarity with the plot and the parroting of a few reviews should let him bluff his way out of any awkwardness. Susan and Bernice were excitedly discussing what they had just seen, so, to play it safe, Warren tried to engage his father-in-law in conversation.
It was like trying to interrogate a Trappist monk, he soon decided. It was a ten-minute stroll to the car park, during which time Warren ascertained that, yes, the garden was growing well; no, the recent dry spell hadn’t done the lawn any favours but the hosepipe was compensating, and no, Dennis didn’t think the England cricket team’s recent performance was a promise of the beginning of a new golden age for the English game.
Finally, they reached the car park. Bernice and Susan got into her car on the ground floor. “Why don’t you go with Warren, dear? Susan and I have things to talk about.”
Just great, thought Warren, no chance for a crafty Internet search to swot up on the play. Still, the look on Susan’s face suggested that she wasn’t looking forward to the drive home with her mother either. Warren had a feeling that the subject of grandchildren, or rather lack of, was probably on the agenda.
Susan’s decisions to marry a police officer and become a Biology teacher — in a comprehensive school of all things — were perhaps less of a disappointment than her apparent unwillingness to produce a grandchild. Moments before the phone had rung the previous night, Bernice had been rummaging in her oversized handbag for the newest collection of photographs from her latest visit to Susan’s remarkably fecund younger sister, Felicity. This had almost certainly been the prologue to an uncomfortable discussion in which Bernice would have reminded Susan that she wasn’t getting any younger. Warren experienced a brief stab of guilt at the relief he felt that he had been spared that conversation.
As for Felicity, married barely three years, baby number three had arrived only a few weeks ago. There was no suggestion that Felicity had married beneath her station; her husband Jeff was an investment banker in London earning at least ten times Warren and Susan’s salaries combined. So impressed was Bernice by this that the fact that the couple’s first child was born considerably less than nine months after their wedding was never discussed.
No, he’d rather take his chances with Dennis, he decided.
After waving the women off, Dennis and Warren climbed another flight of stairs to Warren’s car. Getting in, Warren decided he might as well do some fishing, to see if he could gain some idea as to what they’d just seen. “So what did you think of the play, Dennis?”
The older man grunted. “Not a bloody clue, lad. I slept right through it.”
For a second morning, Warren swatted the alarm clock’s off button at 6:30. He groaned. He’d gone to bed relatively early the night before. After arriving home from the theatre, the foursome had enjoyed a leisurely nightcap, before retiring shortly before midnight. Bernice had been impressed when Warren had related the events of the previous twenty-four hours. Even Dennis had ventured an opinion, commenting on the speed with which they had tracked down Tunbridge’s suspected killer. Warren had apologised in advance for missing church the following morning and warned that, depending on how the day’s events played out, he might not be back until late. That her son-in-law would be giving a press conference the next morning was enough to appease Bernice, who he suspected would be phoning her friends as soon as it aired to get them to watch it. In reality, Warren doubted that he would be saying anything. John Grayson would be the one to take the limelight — he’d probably even wear his uniform. Besides which, if Severino didn’t hurry up and confess, there wouldn’t be too much limelight to go around. He’d deal with Bernice’s disappointment at his small role when the time came, he decided.
Despite his weariness, however, Warren hadn’t been able to sleep. As he had lain awake, listening to the snores from the guest room, his mind had buzzed with doubts.
Foremost was the nagging thought that it seemed too easy. True, most murders were uncomplicated affairs, but this one wasn’t. Severino hadn’t just stuck a knife in Tunbridge on a street corner, or strangled him in a fit of jealous rage. He’d gone into the university late at night, snuck up behind his victim, bludgeoned him and slit his throat. It wasn’t a crime of passion per se. And how had he known that Tunbridge would be in his office so late? Was that normal behaviour for the professor? And what about the evidence? At first glance, it looked pretty damning, but on the other hand Forensics had yet to find any of Tunbridge’s blood on Severino, whilst the CCTV images were far from conclusive.
Assuming that Severino was the murderer, was he working alone? Tunbridge had been a pretty obnoxious individual — could this have been a team effort?
Other small questions also worried away at Warren’s confidence. Mark Crawley had been cagey when interviewed and both Spencer and Hemmingway had struck Warren as not entirely forthcoming.
Ultimately, Warren knew that the charging of Severino would only be the first step. The case was messy and they had to clean up a dozen and one loose ends before the case came to trial. Unfortunately, no prosecution was perfect. Life just wasn’t like that; there would always be a few unexplained facts. Warren’s job now was to make sure that none of those facts would trip them up in court and lose them the conviction.
As he had finally drifted off to sleep, Warren had been haunted by one last image. The look of uncomprehending fear in Severino’s eyes just before he threw up, ending the interview. Was it the look of a guilty man who had just been caught, or the look of an innocent man facing his worst nightmare?
After a shower and shave, Warren tiptoed quietly downstairs. He’d put on his best suit and smartest tie. His dress uniform remained in the wardrobe in a plastic suit carrier. Unlike some officers, Warren believed that, now he was in CID, the uniform should remain for purely ceremonial occasions and a conference to update the press